RADIOACTIVE RATS - NIGDY SIE NIE DAMY

I have an arsehole - it is an arsehole that has served me well and one that I am completely happy with.  It behaves itself, is reliable and only complains when the gut is full of air - oh yes, what a good old arsehole it is!   Now, the question that springs to mind is why, on a cold January evening did the Radioactive Rats feel the need to headline a gig of mine and duly tear me a new one?   It was a shock, an unexpected invasion but man, it felt mighty good.  After the aforementioned rhythmically rectal ripping I was given a CD to asses - some people are just never satisfied.  These Polish Pirates now based in Nottingham are hurtful, aggressive and fuckin' exciting, here are my thoughts on a tempestuous 5 tracker (with 3 bonus belt-outs).

'Nigdy sie nie damy' fuzz rushes accompanied by sticks of speeding necessity.   The gas is eased, a moment to dwell had and then the first oral spite drips onto the rotating swirl of heavy threat noise.   A sprint comes, the band grind the gears, thrash the engine and burst through zonal areas with great gratifying gusto.  The perpetual motion is given moments of preparatory respite ready for the next tear up while during each and every change of direction the band stay in control.  A dirty opening blow-out this - breathe in the exhaust fumes or choke - the choice is entirely yours - I am smoking!
'Do Bolu' riffs with great deliberate strokes, once more each piston-push is stated and direct and of course a prelude to a very much expected charge.   The release comes, the valve is blown off and the impetus is high and all consuming.  This second eruption just outstrips the first due to a more forceful and well-aimed musical attack that tumbles with magnetising pace and leaves no gaps for ill-critique.   The complete incessancy, the tight application, the exact mix that helps signify a good H/C band on their game all contribute to a feeling of a job well done - the thumbs turn upwards. 'Pojebany' grinds with a grizzly dirtiness whilst defecating filthy rear plumes of toxic tuneage for you, the humble listener, to get drugged by.   As you absorb and are caught unawares a beating comes via a gob-led flurry that leaves many a bruise and tangible aftershock.  This fist-fuck is repeated several times over with a joyous spite and unstoppable conviction.  For me the best so far, a right nasty piece of work if ever I heard one.  'Bog' comes, fuzzes, twinges, finds it’s scabbed up feet and goes for it.  The pressure is heightened, the valve is blown once more, a catapult of ill-temper is pulled and a projectile of 'fuck you' malevolence smashes the windows of judgement and hammer shags homeward a hardcore lesson laden with viciousness and, most importantly, clarity.   I like the fact the band rattle away but keep all components discernible and there for the listener to appreciate - it is a style sometimes lost by those looking to play fast and blitz.  The notch of noisy gratification goes up another level next with 'Sprzeciw' - a sonic sabre assault that begins with big slashing and threatening strokes before opening up a full on carve up built on tight-assed application, fiery hollering and an avalanching battering ram of unstoppable force.  The band gallop, rein things in and then charge once more - all the while with one hand on the reins and the other cutting down anyone in their focused way.  The mix, for this kind of music, is exact, it gets the best out of a fully functioning band - marvellous.

The CD is done but we get 3 bonus tracks - I will skip over these and leave you a flavour not fully exposed to keep your nipples of curiosity twitching!  'So2' has a great mid-paced swing, fuzzed up and plodding with a catchy aspect that brings the listener into the fray.  It is a solid sound full of sinewy strength and leads the way with contrasting values into the sizzling beauty known as 'Policja'.  What a song this is, a rabid stunner of white-heat madness that throws in its entirety and comes out the other end a shaking, shattered but respectable wreck.  It is a moment to savour, one to play over and over, one to make sure that you have your medication nearby - stunner.  The finale comes proper with 'Młodzi Faszyśc', a foot stomping song that takes no prisoners, suffers no fools and pisses on those with prejudice problems (and why not).  The drums clatter in, punctuated by a flash of strung intent.   The players blaze to the last silence in unison, riff it up, rip out your innards and leave one mighty impression - fantastic!

The Radioactive Rats are a class hardcore band, they have me convinced both 'live' and 'on CD' and I reckon with a few doors kicked off their hinges and some kindly assistance from promoters and peddlers everywhere they can make a considerable stain on the shithouse walls of many scenes.   My small task is done here, I am mighty chuffed with what I have heard, I just need to get this new arsehole seen to though - tis quite embarrassing when I pass wind don’t ya know.

PUNK 4 THE HOMELESS - COMPILATION 3

Blah, blah, blah - Punk 4  The Homeless have another contribution out and many are looking elsewhere to the place where the big named Gods dictate and tell you what beat you should jump to and how punk shall be - what a sorry state!   Here we have a host of familiar names fighting for air and all I can do is holler out and hope you get clued in and listen up to another fine mix and match collection.  It is a lost cause in many ways, a success in many others, some will understand, some are beyond fuckin' hope.  So 17 tracks, 17 ways to get myself in trouble - ooh heck!

Slow Faction open with the classy old-stained shit out of 'Under Heavy Manners', a quite marvellous political incessancy that comes from the street, delivers a hint of skanky guitar, twist sand turns with ease and has a superb vocal application that gives the song that extra gust of life.  The verbal’s come thick and fast but remain clear and get a reality soaked agenda exposed.  The freshness maintained is what makes this extra special - a fine opener.  The follow-up by ‘Truth Equals Treason’ is a vicious kick in the head of the prejudiced idiots who pervade society and make for a condition unstable.  Hate is everywhere, all sides are flinging shit, it is so easy to 'Blame They Neighbour (Nazi Scum Mix)'. There is no holding back here, get your crash-helmet on dear listeners and make sure your steel-capped boots are polished - the song insists no prisoners are taken.  The words almost trip over one another as the violent vitriol gallops to the final attack - ouch!

Noose come next and lynch our attention with a sweet and sharp bout of popped retro noise right out of the vaults of utterly convincing goodness.  'That's Life' is as honest as the day is along, as unassuming as a pecker in a cricket-box, as sharp as a thorn in a recalcitrant buttock and...I like it.  The song has pizzazz, nouse and an inner sumptuous goodness  - yummy.  These element can also be found in abundance in many Benefit State songs but not so here as their offering is from the 'live' pit and so falls into the shadows somewhat.  'Female Order' is a good song marred by a subversive sound that is the best that can come from a scuzzy 'in the flesh' recording.   A shame but the band display enough I am sure to get people intrigued.   If 'live' offerings are not your thing do not be put off by this - the BS Boys are decent and know how to create some good tuneage - go seek em' out.

Huffy comes next, puts a political finger in the pie and pulls out a tuneful plum of acousticised spite.  I think this artiste has a grudge against all things blue and in truth I really can't understand why!  The country is running so smoothly, democracy is pure and our leaders are so ruddy lovable (add own bitter sarcasm please).  ‘I Hate You Tory Bastards’ gets things said, from radioed verses that become clearer, to spleen-venting raving - I think many will enjoy this (and so they should).  Keith Hudson comes next with a cracking tale about acid-retailer 'Uncle Sid', a fantasy granting deviant who can take you on a journey of colliding confusion and titter-invoking enchantment.  The experienced tab-dropper relates a tickler to induce flashbacks and create visions of heads bombed, insights sharpened.  I know a few A-heads, thick as shit some of em', I think they missed the point.  This ponders the positive side of a dabble - nice.

Next and the warped and wanked formula of pushing boundaries and sensation seeking madness.  The Outbursts' spunk up a delightful jaunt of sexual malpractice and bass-heavy bumbling with 'Pervert' arousing many primeval receptors.  The lead lout is a man having a breakdown, a man not to be trusted near an open knicker drawer, a suspicious specimen forever leaking down below - ooh the rotter.  The song is a snigger-provoking piece - I know I shouldn't but hey, it just can't be helped.  May Contain Nuts spit shit with fizzing hate against that annual circus where clowns tumble in a alcho haze, cabaret acts take the coin and run and the DIY dogs in the gutter are duly forgotten.   'Rebellion Song' is a strong surge against the grain and all I hope is the morals exposed are not a throwaway product easily bought when the chance arises to turn tail and accept a slot on the 4 day blow-out (it happens quite regularly don't ya know).   The ravings here appeal, I am in concurrence, I jump and jig with glee.

Verbal Warning enter the mix with the most cultured song of the lot and perhaps the most impressive.   The reggae ruffling bass, the easy skin slaps, the caressed flick of the soul-kissed lead and the sincere honesty of the vocal tint all make for a slow political cruise against the ruling riffraff and the shitty legislation they enforce.   The 2nd amendment comes under fire, a fire that is the only one needed in this day and age and one that will be done without any further casualties.  The right to bear arms is a farce, a temptation for those on the edge to blow out brains, I am thankful here the band blow minds with one wonderfully sharp and spiked song to be reckoned with.  Rites of Hadda opposes this pertinent and coolly delivered piece with the 'live' exposure slagged down as 'The Revolution And My Love'.   A harsh sounding cacophony that has a remarkable incessancy and unstoppable trashiness ideal for those gutter-slagging shits who like things crummy and crackling.   This isn't an easy song to assess due to the 'in the flesh' rawness and the tinnitus inducing mix that gnaws at the aural ear-drums.  The nucleus of noise though has a stout heart and having got these booked for a future gig, I am now further intrigued.

'The Lone Groover' arrives on centre stage next with the contemplative culture cruise coined 'How The West Was Lost'.  An observer’s view done in acoustic style with note made of the downward spiral and the shitty mess created by those detached.  A bewilderment is emanated, the coping mechanisms are stretched, the understanding pushed to the max yet all the while the crooner remains in control and delivers a worthy one man interlude away from the more raucous rattlings.  As a counterbalance the Black Light Mutants oppose with a troubled toss-off of experimental oddness that drips from mechanical monstrosity’s gone haywire.  'Renegade' moves into realms distant, pisses on the norm and offers an electronic dish to contemplate.   The vocals are squeezed through automated crevices, are almost taunting in effect, come from a midst of toy room tampering where mischievous hands make sweet merry hell.   This is a song to digest over many spins, there are layers to expose but for now I judge it to be a crucial inclusion and one that shows what great treats are out there to be discovered in many sub-niches of noise.

Into the last 5, Complete Dysfunction are a band I know, they have played a few Fungalised shows and always do the business.  'Banjob' is regular riffery for these acoustic 'erberts and ploughs along in unassuming spiked style - without affect, idiot trimmings and extraneous bullshit.  The 'live' aspect takes off the initial impact and one has to strain that little bit harder to get the gist.  Imagine the pub full, the sweat flying, the players in the zone - I think that should reveal what is going on here.  Not bad at all.  Blank Screen recently hopped on a gig of mine, 'Take A Bite' is a morsel of what we were blessed with and what a fine effort it is.  Raucous, catchy, colliding and full of popped punk infection.  The grubby bass paves the way, we veer in, hit the first verse running whilst scuzzing up the roadway of rhythm with much discharge and fumed fuckery.   The gravel flies, the focus is fluent and those who get too close get shit sprayed - I love it!  'Track Not Found' by Ecstasy is another dirty dog, a real unwashed sloucher sidling along your leg of attention and grooming your good side with a rock chick/dripping dick exhibitionist advance from realms not naturally fitting in to what has transpired thus far - marvellous.  This sub-erotic squelcher squeezes out like a fart from a fat man's rear cheeks and tries its best to seduce and reduce your flimsy resistance.  I stand unsure - my member of judgement wavers between a flopper and a door stopper -  I need more time (and pills).

Proud City Fathers are a good band, they are hammer forth out a solid, tempestuous tune here with 'New Gods' exposing the bands ill temper, fine ability and unapologetic mania.   The crunching cacophony kicks shit, is aflame with rib-rattling skin work and a guitar essence that captures the inner soul and gets it all a fuckin' jitter.   One for the wound up and disillusioned - one for those itching to put their nut through a window - my advice, play loud, do not hesitate.   The CD, as a whole, finalises with an acoustic tickle via Chris Butler.   The song, 'Two Shit Sundays' is a pleasantly delivered song, almost it seems, borne from a riverbank.  The movement is rippling, one for the unsettled and those forever on the move.  The vocals are crisp, awash with thought and always on the side of things melancholic.  As far as acoustic ditties go this is all fine and dandy and even though it is a bit of a dour way to finish a CD it fits in with the theme set - varied, questioning and opposing.

Job done, Volume 3 under the belt, this series just gets better.  Get your collection started or completed today - and it is all for a good cause too - The Compass Children's Charity - what more can you ask for?

WSDSOD - REIFICATION BLUES

I like the White Skull Death Snakes Of Death, they are a bent banana in a fruit box of orthodox apples, they are an upright nob of noise in a parade of flaccid peckers, they are an angle in a circle that throws off perspective and any sense of understanding - fuck yeah.  Categorisation of these Nottingham based noise makers is wonderfully difficult and the shit they shovel forth is such a disastrously discordant DIY mess that this dog of the nether-regions is ready to sniff.  So the arse is bared, the balls dangled, the stench emanated - 8 tracks are there to be tackled, - fuckin' woof!

'Children Of Edith' is a beautiful start, ragged throughout with a dirty DIY mentality that shitstreaks the whole material of sub-melodic wanking and leaves nether-regions...nobbed.  There is a cruelty in the metalised construction, a spiteful desire to cause aural injury and leave bruising around certain orifices.  The initial penetration is unwashed, uncaring and radiates a certain savagery which I find...arousing.   The band metalise matters, industrialise the shitheap of sound and serve it up on rusted shovels already polluted.  The vocal style is semi-twisted, from a Hell on Earth it emanates, from a style unorthodox and without processed affectation.   The bass is a gritty backbone, the drums a mud splat, the guitar an untrustable roamer in the forest fire of sound - I like it.  'Gravity's Pull' is a mockery, a fuckin' unholy mess perpetually giving birth to a disabled dollop of writhing, reactive music.   It is an abortion of puked defecation, every orifice is contributing to the final orgasm of disgust - and yet within the abysmal horror something tangible and may I say, in fear of blasphemy, musical comes.   The appeal of a crew relieving inner demons, wanking with naturalness and making such discordant destruction titivates my deviant streak - and why the Hell shouldn't it.  The following track is a better effort to be fair and too much of the full on rhythmic raping would be even too much for this DIY soul so 'Shaking Hands And Kissing Babies' is a welcome slab of more orthodox rhythm making, humping, grunting and grinding with a vicious disgust against the suited and booted who parcel and package and play a game too many are sucked in by.  The band have had enough, they expose the guts, they create garters and strangle anyone getting too close with the said slippery entrails.  It is an orgy of down and dirty disillusion, it heaves and humps with the ravenous attention of a screwing mongrel - listen to this cur croon and watch the lipstick quiver.

'The Sweet Smell Of Excess' segues in with tribal recklessness and a venereal disease of poisoning idiocy that duly causes an outbreak of cerebral pox to send the most strait-laced of gentlemen running for the asylum.  I am one of these gentlemen, i find this troublesome bout of virulent power violence upsetting to the constitution and consider it the least favoured in this pack of annoyance - it was bound to happen.   The short running time is slight salvation but not quite enough to save its ass.  'Dream Of Mo' is an invasive, degrading discharge pumped into your rectal passage via an orgy of malevolent machines hell-bent on making mischief and impregnating the curious with black seeds of bacteria rock.  The grind is consistent, built around many inner piston pumps that will not be stopped until the deviant job is done.  Resistant flesh is torn, the riff rams home, the hook snags and we, the barbed and beaten victim, bow down to a mess well done.

3 left, I shudder at the pre-conceived shockwaves to come my way.

'Housewives Favourite' tramlines in on rails warped and liable to throw any untoward passenger sideways and down a thorn banking that leads to the local sewerage dump.  In fact the emanations can be felt in the hooter as we are transported along in an uncomfortable fashion and left with rear end piles that make us duly wince.  This engine of evil throws out toxic virulence, each component wired up to distort, corrupt and clog.  An inner segment exposes things more clearly, the final culmination of the noise is a headlong crash that really turns on my turnips - it saves the day!  The penultimate track and the devilish discordance brings us 'On Demand' - a song with tympanic urgency, a song that travels with Black Art malevolence and one which pukes up a rather fetid odour once more.   Here the song throws matters in the usual style - unorthodox, jizzed rather than fully jazzed and with unruliness that really does give the whole shebang its own defining essence.   Tis a cruel conveyance of crippling lunacy but if one takes time the joy of the players, the nastiness of the output and the awkwardness of it all...thrills.

We fuck off with the molestation known as 'Max'.   An episode that begins with a terrifying storm of musical heaving before the chorus comes and confounds with the verse following and preparing the way for something best not considered.   There is a hint of sable magic having been manipulated and a gateway open for something dark and dangerous to enter - the looming majesty awaits an abomination and as the lead lout chants, a follower gets aroused and backs up the universal warning to all.  The end cacophony twists, skewers, rapes - all I ask of you is to strip naked, eat your defecation, wallow in a pool of piss whilst soaking up this unnerving production – snarl baby, snarl - I bid thee farewell.

So, this band have a name that is off kilter and, as it transpires, a song on CD to match.   They certainly do things their own way, there are no rules here and I am sure many will adore but equal numbers will say 'what the fuck was that shit'.  I am happy with both situations, I hope the band are too because it is a job well done.

MAUGER - SUNDAY COMPETITION

Dabblings from the Belgium coast done in an indiefied way with emphasis on keeping things emotionally involving, featherlight and ethereal.  The tones used are from the pastel side of the palette but this doesn't mean that the end pictures painted are of less impact, less ambition - all it means is that the purveyor of assessing text needs to take a closer look and spend a little bit more time on each and every segment of easily stroked sound.   I am in no rush, although I do see the album is due for release in just over a week - hey well, all I can do is what I do!

'Route De Soleil' is a gracile flow of gracious liquidity formed from a slowly babbling brook guitar, a rustled fern whisper of tender tympanic care and a water reflected vocal style that creates somnambulant sensations from oral caverns paradoxically destined to keep one highly alert.  The environmental sensations are wafted forth on a sweetly constructed framework that seems, at any moment, to be liable to collapse and float away along a meandering stream sonic stream filled with further possibilities - the players do mighty well to keep all intact and deliver a quite surprising beauty!  The follow up to this opening massage is 'Grace Plays Alone', a song that catches light from dewdrop attention, drips with welcome delight and semi-whispers its way deeper into the featherlight comfort of the slowly pendulous lilt.  The switches in impetus are very slight, almost imperceptible in fact, with every player staying in a very rewarding comfort zone and donating a subtle skilled application one should be wary of overlooking.   This second donation is a perfect partner to the opening lemon-droplet of mouth-watering sweetness and I reckon, for an old punk bastard like me to be appreciative, the band must be doing something right!

The quality so far has me surprised, the fact that I like what is going on surprises me even more - I must be going soft in my old age!

'Come Back To The City' opens its account and travels through the initial part of the first verse on a stripped bare soundscape before gently rising just above the sonic substrate and wafting us into a simple, yet thoroughly precise, chorus whisper. From here the song continues to weave a perpetual path of susurrated magnificence all done in acoustic shades of the softest kind.  Somehow, the combination of application creates a strong end portrait - a portrait one can easily be engrossed by.  'In A Haze' is next, once more keeping things lowbrow and without any baroque needlessness.  Distant tribal drums work alongside a solitary vocalist who is gradually escorted by many light touches and ad hoc accoutrements that make the idling flow natural and somewhat tactile.  I reach out and feel more closely, the soporific tepid aroma emanated is just lacking in flavour for my intrigued palette but we all have varied tastes and this will be a welcome dish for many in a contemplative move and in need of a rhythmic recline.

'Time To Choose' begins with a good bassed rhythm and an upbeat skin sensation reminiscent in some ways to some early electro-dance concoction.  The oral airwaves are fluent, slip from verse to chorus with a sub-digitised touch and thus confirming the previous comparison.  The keyed touches, the general gist and the almost-robotic underscore make this pre-programmed arrangement a simple bout of effective sonica to just swing along to.  'I'm Always Fine' offers up an almost gothic cathedral of orchestration amidst misted wuthering moors where wraith-like wanderers mutter and search for...who knows what!   There is a ghostly gentleness woven around a sturdy but gracile backbone of swishing sound, the added female touches add to a haunted effect and even if you love or loathe this one the certainty of an ambience captured is there to be witnessed.

The last hat-trick of sound, the tension arises via 'Big Man', a set of keys are on edge, the vocals counteract with a sobriety and we get a mix that is both mundane, downcast and of greyish hue.  This isn't a track I am overly keen on despite all areas being tidy, precise and within a theme sought.  The approach for me is a little too limp-wristed, orchestrated and insipid but this doesn't make it a faux pas or a complete fuck-up - for me it makes it a decent song I don't like!  'Streets Run Dry' is a similar song in many ways but is granted a little extra favour due to the slightly bolder framework on which the general gist is carried.  The song has more angles and a whispered wing blowing throughout the bare alleyways and so contributing to a fuller effect.   Add to this a pseudo-erotic sinisterism and a coffee-table comfort and it just pips the previous effort for applause.  'No Time To Look At You' plucks, twinges, drip drops with a paradoxical careful naturalness that is duly enhanced when the attentive and considered vocals barely touch the sonic substrate and mist matters over with conviction.  Even a wallower in the filthy pig swill of sound can stand up, twitch the dripping hooter and sense that something rather artistic is being played out and something that many will absolutely adore.  I think this is a steady way to end matters!

Now have that - a spiked bastard once more delving outside the circles many set and coming up trumps in an assortment of ways with a CD that has some real genuine highs.  Mauger have a good thing going here and no matter how many call for more 'bollocks', for a whip up of pace, I think if they can replicate matters on a follow-up release things will be mighty fine.  After that I will be hollering for change as per, but for now, well go and see what you think.

HEADSTICKS - KEPT IN THE DARK

Over the years, as one can imagine, I have dealt with 100's of bands, encountered many more and seen more than I care to mention.   Along the way the masses use and abuse, some move on to pastures they believe to be greener and some just fall by the wayside.   Headsticks have been good to ye olde Fungal, they have moved up through the layers and are now getting the respect they deserve and even though they are on loftier plateaus they never forget and quite graciously come back to 'level zero' and play the odd Fungal show - it says a lot.   The music they play is their own, I struggle to find flaw and am so far up to speed with my assessing requests.   This is the latest spillage, a hefty 16 tracker that will not be given favour, will not be used as an arse-kissing vehicle and will certainly not be assessed through rose-tinted bins.  I expect, the band expects, at the end of the day those lovely bastards from down Stoke way get this.

'When' knocks me backward, I was expectant of something more gentle - what a silly git.  The song romps in, finds its ticker beat, surges with self-propelling passion that sees all players rise to the opening challenge and produce a frisky knock-about that exposes yet more hidden facets to a band surfing bare-bollocked on the crest of a very accepting wave.  There are many facets to this opening number - the distinct vocals, the easy sticks, the collaboration of wires that play it straight, have a pootle off track and yet keep to the recipe written - I am pleased with this initial gift, and so should you be too!  Onwards and some serious skankiness with 'I Love You' squelching the upstrokes (ooh err), putting a few calories on the bass line and allowing the skins to be skipped with a most unrehearsed and ad hoc naturalness.   The song has a strait-jacketed nervous energy and displays an adoration under fire without any tangible reason or common sense.   Such is the all-consuming emotion - once bitten, forever smitten, enslaved to the tingle you'll be.   This is a very persuasive number, a sly little creeper that gets better with each listening experience - Headsticks are not just blatantly good, they have hidden secrets don't ya know - crafty blighters!

'Peace Or War' stop starts. has you on the edge of your seat before breezing in with a frisky air.  Sonic snippet the third has a flurried uplift and creates a noted snowstorm that blows cobwebs away and leaves one with a view to consider the flakes, fuckwits and general white-fuzz of confusion.  A grey area is avoided, a shout for things to be made transparent, a call to end much nonsense is done with good animation and as I turn up the volume switch I find myself 'moving and grooving' - I think that sums up my opinion.  'Cynical' begins with true Headsticks tones, flows with the bands signature style and is, for me at least, the best song thus far.  The lovely lilt of the strings, the disillusion, the easy swing into fields of confounding questions that sprout from substrates of eroded innocence all come to the fore and leave one bewildered and a stuttering stone carrying too much moss.  We start smooth, we get roughened up, the clear bright eyes get bloodshot and the soul jaded as one misery, one vulgarity, one fuckin' human disappointment follows the next - the crew cultivate the emotion to a tee.

A skanky shroom song next, right up my street with 'Mushrooms' making the most unlikeliest of comparisons between the fungal growths I love and adore and the human populace that gets on my fuckin' tits.  The song is a quirky jaunt with an impish glint in the eye and a bitterness never far away.  The realisation of being kept under wraps may be had but most who will listen won't give a toss as long as they can dance, drink and do nowt (excuse my annoyance).  I like this one, if it generates activity then I like it more, I think I may just carrying on 'liking it' though.  'Mr I'm Alright Jack' could be a tale about 99.9% of the people out there - going about their lives and only giving to charity when their own lot is cosy and in order.  Tis a conscience easer, a cerebral appeaser and looks mighty generous to many besides the recipient.  This construct bursts with life, follows an unorthodox route and has a verbal punch.  The musical arrangement is animated and intact, I just hope the video created as a promotional piece doesn't blemish the serious message beneath - there are some right deaf cunts about ya know!

The next 2 songs see the tonal zonal areas where Headsticks thrive and attain their own personal zeniths.  'My Own War' captures emotion, captivates attention and moves on reliable ripples of heartfelt noise that moves senses, moves ones soul.  The guitars hint at melancholia, the stick work is underestimated but keeps a great impetus and the vocals are ravenous for the task at hand.  What we get is a complete and rolling heave of sound that has a latent strength and reinforces the quality of the band (not as though you would have any doubts).  'It's A Matter Of Time' begins with sanguine strokes, finds a comfortable and rewarding lilt and works its way inward with inescapable thermality and honest-to-good music making.  Again the nucleus of the song is stained with lugubrious lilts and a certain dysphonic dejection that pervades all but is somehow gently tattooed through with a surreptitious hope - a hope that threatens to blossom.   The construction of the song is of a sing-a-long variety, it will attract the bleary eyed, the thoughtful and...the pissed up - either way, I think it completes a wonderful brace.

A snatch of three, 'Smoke And Mirrors', fuzzes and scuzzes before slapping away and picking a verse direction that veers around and takes some initial grasping.  The chorus slips in and becomes part of one continuous flow that perhaps is self-diluting and ends up as neither one thing nor the other.  I remain 'on the fence' here with many an aggravating splinter up me arse from those who disagree - ruddy fuckers.  'What If They're Right' comes from dark billowed clouds, asks a question, points out those self-appointed know it all Gods who cause a disturbance, cause a fuckin' row (ooh copyright infringement) and at the end of the day contribute nothing positive to the great cause.  The scrutiny of the 'rebel songs' is neither here nor there for me as many sing their ditties without any backing action and do it as part of a 'motion' - it is shameful I suppose.  The song is a jazzy affair, thrown off the rubbing wrist with a certain abandon and reactionary abuse - I kinda like it, the gusto is the key as is the frustration - tis good to be rankled.  The last of the flitting threesome (ooh me arse) is 'Out Of Fashion', a nice poetical piece done out by the roadside in a word of reality asking 'you' the listener 'why'.  Compassion may be out for some but a few are striving to fight back making love the real weapon, caring and sharing the ideal to aim for.  It ain't easy, it never will be, but we can listen in here and try that little bit harder - a crucial inclusion.

'Family Tree' begins with Bo Jo ambiguity before a bounce is found and a starlight skank lifts us up and buoys us along on another oceanic movement of questioning consternation.  The pecking order is indeed pecked at, the ones born into comfort and a detached reality are exposed, the ones at the bottom left to masticate on a con-trick.  Hitler once said that if you give the masses fuck all they will love you for the odd crumb you throw their way - ever get the feeling there is more than just one person at the top thinking like this.  Headsticks relay their message, the passion and belly-fire is bared for all to be radiated by.  'All Of The Trees' is a fine skip dealing with mass destruction and the termination of the future as we know it. The band hop through musical meadows like the Pied Pipers of Prophecy and leave in their wake a tune, a message, a wake-up call - 9 out of 10 will be just affected by the tune, I hang my head in shame.   Tis a song close to my passions here, one that is easily trotted along with and...most importantly...heeded.

3 left - 'The Song For Songs Sake' is easy man, easy.   It drifts along like a discarded ditty from that old TV show 'A Handful Of Songs'.  The creation here however is a sneaky devil pointing a taloned digit towards those who create for creations sake, say one thing and do fuck all.  Look around you, especially in these partified times, all talk, no action, many messages, no follow-ups.  Ah fuck it - the song here gets my vote and my arse will be shifting in many ways as per.  I hope all creators of throwaway thrutches squeeze their sonic sphincters a little harder and whilst jigging to this perky piece they get up and 'do something'.    An electro-sub-squelch slops down, repeats and takes us into the doom-heavy 'When The Sun Turns Black', a curious piece that lays down foundations of a finale to fear, a finale to hopefully make you think.  I like this latter end creeping curio - it has all the adornments of the crew under the spotlight, a 'rising sun' guitar affect, an inner plea that is almost par for the questioning course.  The slow undulations, stab attacks and earnest vocal additions all do the trick - the band are a mighty decent unit don't ya know.   We shut down with 'Baboon Shepherd' - well what can I say - 'shite', 'awful', 'pointless' and 'bilge' would be options but I expose my tolerant side and say if you want to listen to the retro-ravings of a man using self-therapy on CD to a cool background of molested reggae then please indulge - for me - well I have enough going on in my head to last a lifetime - I end on a duff note!

So there ya go and if one cares to overlook the last pimple on the arse of this intriguing CD then you could consider the job an untold success.  Unlike the first 2 albums there are no instant classics here and the CD takes a little more time to adjust to than expected.   The band are not resting on their laurels though and sticking to a formula both tried and tested - it is good they are stretching their wings and this ardent fan will be watching them all the way on their journey forward and offering honest critique - will you!

BOGANS - HERE BE MONSTERS

Punk rock from Wales - well that's what Facebook says!  I like Wales - some good wildlifing to be had there, as for punk rock, well who gives a flying fuck - too many are trying to prove themselves and win points - forget it, be you, be awkward, be productive and that will do for me.  Bogans have played a Fungal gig and had a CD reviewed so far in their short history  - I have no complaints thus far.  The band seem to be digging in, striving to carve out their own niche - here is my take on the latest release which I hope will help, albeit in the only way I know (some don't get it, some just don't want to).  5 tracks, no time to tug the John Thomas, let us crack on instead of cracking one off.

A quick tympanic rattle, a searing string sequence, a taut exercise to inject terror and then 'Close To Home' duly molests.   The first cut is deep, acute and followed by a brief electric invasion of salt in the wound.   We wince, step back and then 'fuck it' - in we plunge to a fiery, tempestuous mix that shows the Bogans have turned matters up a notch and are driving home their nails of noise into our stubborn walls of attention.  Plaster falls, brickwork crumbles, the outside/inside is exposed - we take note, rock with the rhythm and get knocked sideways.  The ultimate question comes at the final blast - a 'hit' or a 'shit' I hear you ask - I opt for the former tag and am confident of the choice - a nice sizzler for sure!  'Cattle Battle' 1 - 2 fist fucks, flicks the innards and repeats before grabbing an handful of intestinal fifth and flinging the muck in your doubting mush.   The electrified urgency kicks-off, rattles with an array of thumping angles before getting the head down and ploughing away with keen, fuzzed direction.  The sub-chorus slips in and perhaps needs a little more refine and define work to give it true emphasis but in no way does it hinder the healthy flow of the fuckery.  The band have plenty of meat on the vibrating bone (gosh) and shake it about with gargantuan gusto - penetrating parts here, there and around the corner (double gosh)!  I like this one, it shows the band are moving forth and have a definite strain to stick up the punters jacksies - and so on!

'Narcissistic Tendencies' could be a song about 90% of the dwellers in the scene, ooh the self-obsessed posers and empty rags.   The ditty drives with force, sharp at first and then more numbing before hitting the rough frenzy expected that surges, staggers, pogoes and swaggers.   The band blend many properties and make for a house of sound partially chaotic but kept in check throughout with some very acute musicianship.  The oral gruffness, muscularity of the sonic substrate and the flourish at the finale all put things into perspective and I am quite glad that I have booked the band to play another gig.

2 left, 'Vignette' electro pulses with new-edged wonder and bright hope sobered and put in its place by the usual throaty expulsions.   The first verse grows, the rear pack holler, the riffs are multiplied and the intensity duly rises.   No chorus as such comes, we get a break tympanically dictated, a continuation of the galvanised gumption the band are now consistently throwing our way.  There is a definite style developing here - we are now past the embryonic stages, this band have pubes and we should make sure we appreciate what is going on!  'Here Be Monsters' draws the curtain on the cacophony, does so in a carving and gruesome style - following a slash and shatter path that on one hand stalks with high zoomed focus and on the other pounces and pulversies with a flurry of all areas.  The end result is a complete and unorthodox spillage of sizzling sonic shittery borne from musical arses on fire.  An inner switch off adds schizo-concerns, of course a dash for the finishing tape is had - I think the band may have just snatched victory.

For me, a 5 song release is just right for the Bogans and captures the essence of the band and makes one appreciate the nuances and characteristics that make them tick.   Over a longer stretch they need to vary the game and throw in some oddments to embolden the battering ram delivery.  I suggest another EP for the next release and then maybe a split single with a lone plucker could be wonderful.  In the meantime I shall now jack my joint to this snippet of goodness - no wonder, my conkers are throbbing!

MCDERMOTT'S 2 HOURS VS LEVELLERS & OYSTERBAND - BESIEGED

Well-respected musicians gather, they have a reason to make a rhythm - they do this on a 12 track release - I am a called upon to scribble my thoughts and I do so without sway, without the dropping of any names or indeed I hope, any clangers.  This Anglo-Celtic offering is thrown into the mix and my head is donated for listening time.  The usual essences come, these are never easy jaunts to judge but the verdict-making syrup is donned and the outcome of my thoughts goes like this.

'Firebird' glides in on fluttered string escorts and a regulating under rhythm that makes sure the general gist of sound is held aloft.  The oral richness is warm and gratifying, massages the overall movement with invoking care and breathes forth genuine life.  The trinkets of in-scene accordance are worn with pride, the emerald tattoo is inbred, inescapable and in-keeping with preconceived expectations.  Like a good whiskey this one is non-too harsh, leaves a firm afterglow and has a flavour for the connoisseur - I am a mere amateur sipper, but I partake several more times just to be sure!  'Erin Farewell' swings in, waltzes in fact, relates a tale of a soul close to the land, trying to get by and then suddenly on a journey and waving goodbye to the soil of the soul.  The tale is slowly dripped forth in a unassuming and leisurely way with the honesty and emotion carefully layered and felt by the listener.  The call of the brighter lights can be seen as one Isle is left and another beckons.  The vocals roll likes waves, the working man is torn, the truth becomes a problem, the eternal draw of things pleasurable and those responsible is had - only time can bring the true answer, only a learning curve can result in genuine enlightenment - in that there is a tragedy, a tragedy felt within this song!

A friskier number next, a more shantified song with 'This Child' having a sober singing style that states its case via the verse, crashes waywardly into a sub-chorus section and then furrows the brow once more and gets the task at hand dealt with.  My grip is the sub-chorus, it comes as a fracture to the solid verse sections and in some ways just doesn't work and affects the fluidity.  It is an awkward moment but gradually, with patience, it can be adjusted to - it is all a question of being 'arsed'.  The inner orchestral movement is a neat touch but again, hinders the liquidity - I skip onwards.  'The Last Mile' nestles down in zones of comfort and waltzes along without any real snags, slips or irritating splinters in the attentive rear end.  A mid-paced pootle that leaves me little to say -a song that is par for the course, stays within boundaries and goes through motions many love to roll about in - I am indifferent here, but the band nail matters nonetheless.

'Forlorn Hope' is a swishing and swirling beauty that uses its own perpetual motion and healthy blast of aerated conviction to keep things incessantly captivating and entertaining.  A lady of hidden depths is exposed, a tale to consider deeply whilst cutting swathes of string excellence heighten the listening experience and bring abounding life to a song that I consider to be one of the best.  It is a melodic movement that increases in stature, stamps home its point and leaves a solid impression - yes, there is no hope for some, just the way it should be.  Next up and 'All That Fall' is a gentle kiss, a tender moment that looks back, is laden with regret and stark realisation.  The application of each tone qualifies it for strict attention and for some reason I am rating this one above all that has passed due perhaps to the consideration taken.  The tale unfolds without rush, each lapping wavelet rolls over the senses without too much disturbance - this can be a quite gratifying thing.

I skip on, grab a fistful of three - 'The Warrior Monk' is a sturdy effort built on flexed musical muscles and regards a bugger off the leash.  The stride of the song is insistent, the overall arrangement straightforward and with baubles of affect and as a result, for me the non-converted, things come across as a par-for-the-course moment. The slight rise and the fine fiddle flourishes appetise me no end but I remain in a state of undecided flux.  'Crossed Lines' flows on waters placid, pleading, with a slow emotive buoyancy that is definitely a mood piece.  A moment to recline with, a moment to close the lids and disappear.  It has its place on this CD, the pillow warmth is not lost, the lullaby essence deeply inhaled and beautifully taken before the highpoint of the fleeting three comes via 'Besieged' and what a joy it is?  Uplifting, embracing, crisp and honest this joyous lilt is sobered by the tale of a soldier on the trawl through life, fighting the cerebral troubles, the worries of combat.  The general contradictions, consternations and confessions are laid bare - this is a fine flowing tune albeit of a character orthodox and 'as expected'.  The fiddling moments and the vocals though are something else and make for a creation rather special - the best of the lot for me!

Next up, 'The Dead Man's Polka' is a routine ditty that is aimed at making the foot tap, the leg twitch, the ass swing.   Eventually a full on reel is the target sought, the summoning of jigging imps and swirling sots is blatant, I know many who won't be able to resist and hey, after a couple of sherry’s I reckon I will be in the melee too.  The colour palette that the band use is blended with careless accuracy, make of that what you will dear onlookers.  'All In Your Name' is a forthright song, stamping along with a certain seriousness that digs in against religion (well one religion as usual) and takes no prisoners.  There is a deeply ingrained hatred and perplexity running deep within volcanic veins looking to spit back and blaspheme with great victorious gusto.  I remain aloof from the intricacies of minds bent by threats and woven words and try and move on with an honest approach and deal with the music instead - it is a power filled penultimate track, meaty and hard-hitting - time to kick a few cerebral doors off their hinges methinks.  We close with a long drawn-out sub-prayer called 'The Ring'.  I apologise for my indifference, I submit the written word here that exposes my lack of interest - I drift off and leave it to those who prefer this kind of thing.  It is a poetical cradle to the grave cycle that that sombrely creeps along over blasted moorlands of melody and makes for one ruddy misery inducing moment - nah - I'll stick with the more jovial stuff thank you - there is enough melancholy out there!

So, in parts I have gushed, in parts I have groaned, at the end of the day this style of music will never be my thing and is something for those in the niche or those who love a good fiddle (Jimmy Saville being an exception).  There are some genuine highpoints here though that I will be happy to play over and over and in the midst of alternative music the flavour will be increased ten-fold, of that I have no doubt.   As far as this sub-generic noise goes though - it is a mighty decent piece of work.

LAGS - SOON

Post hardcore heaving from the Italian city of Rome.  We have varied aromas coming to the fore here, all from certain sub-generic niches that need further exploration, exposure and consideration.  The album is said to be both 'cathartic' and 'self-realising', two facets that could cause a great deal of trouble or bring much unmitigated success - I enter the realm of these Roman rhythm makers and concoct a review that goes like this.

'Knives And Wounds' opens on a crummy bass line, it turns me on and as the rest of the rattlers and roarers join the fray things are kept nicely basic and stripped down whilst a fair impression is made.  The band fail to get drawn into becoming over-saturated and looking for a throat ripping intensity which for me, saves the day and makes matters more listenable, more emotively hurtful and with a certain identifying streak that convinces no end.  The final push when all wires and skins are left to roam unescorted sees the song reach new echelons of magnificence and the shards scattered now begin to cut - a solid opener!  'Echoes' channels much frisky energy, has a brief burst before catching various acoustic rays and reflecting them outward with a similar style found previously.   The lazy deliveyr interspersed with cloudbreaks and a switch off moment is a lot to take in in a few listens and so time is needed to develop an understanding of the true machinations unfolding.   The gist I capture is of a song that just outstays its welcome and tries to fit too much into its given running time.   The blend of components is sometimes clustered at times but there is a freshness going on and the final throes activate new life - just not my cup of cha' this one!  'Showdown' comes on regulated rhythms, vocalises with cooled authority and continues with an almost aloof posture before things get tasty.   The impetus and input increase, there is a roughened edge to the mix but one that is scabbed up in a quite sagacious way, done by hands in the know.  The march of this demands attention, the back end repeat brainwash nags and does a job, the end flourish rounds off a song that makes the Fungal grade - lucky bastards!

I travel deeper into the din, I nibble at 'The Bait', the first tastes are vague, I sense something uncertain, reaching, in need of a greater effort on behalf of the listener.  I put in some extra time, pick up on a song troubled, schizoid and with a superfluity of zest and vigour.   The flames that rise remain clear, the smoke they give off is a separate entity and the song survives a roasting as a result.  I listen as the drums are walloped, the strings bent all ways, the vocalist’s voice box is given a kicking - at the end of the melodic melee I remain unsure.   'Magic Bullet' is a swishing metallic curtain of controlled orchestration that lightly billows, is somewhat moth-consumed and gives off a plume of long settled toxic dust that many may be overcome by.   The arrangement of the melodic material, despite the upper layers of muck, are somewhat intricate and perhaps a little too embellished and, as a result, my decisive verdict is clouded.   The last hurrah before the ultimate shutdown is glorious though - all is not so murky and with increased listens a certain grasp of what transpires is had. 'Second Thoughts' enters on natural stick shuffles, is backed by an ominous bass strain and then joined by the icicle utterances now recognised as part of what the band ultimately do.   Angles are considered, a repeat hammering comes as a chorus cutlet and the rest of the way we get nagged and pecked and, if in the mood, aroused.   Alas if the mood is not quite right an annoyance is grasped - bah!

2 more, 'What It Takes' flows in on lucid and brisk tonality, the guitar leaves space for the first verse to operate, gently nudges back in and then the chorus rises - it is a sweet piece of work and with each component operating in its own airspace and coming together at the same time I think the band have a good well-aerated creation here and I play over and over just to be certain.  'Acceptable' completes this quick assessing double punch and moves forth on a low flame, simmers rather than sizzles and keeps all ingredients under control and a away from the fear of a full on charring.  The open sequence lacks a certain spiciness, the halt before things turn liquid impedes the cooking process and as things get tossed about in the wok of weaving creation a vulgar mixing method creates what I deem to be a mess.  I partake several times, I just fail to taste any impacting goodness although what is finally served up will gratify some palettes - just not mine!

'I Still Remember' is a strange song with vocal vinegars sprinkled from a certain distance and failing to truly enhance the flavour of a promising underscore of nutritious noise that screams out for a finishing  touch.   There is much going on, an ascension comes and promises to punctuate matters but the song continues with a plucking touch that fails to pique interest.  I replay, consider, play again, I am finding little to appeal to the Fungal desires - this shit happens, tis such a shame at this penultimate stage!   We close the CD proper with 'Il Podista' - a safe and secure roll along that repeat beats, pulses, shimmers and refuses to become overly manipulated.  The explosive parts are needed, when the band rise to the task they are all the better for it - this is a par for the course closure - if you are delighted thus far there will be no reason for that emotion to alter.

In retrospect I view this CD as one tilted by an early flourish that excited and intrigued and outshone the later offerings.   Like a dog from the traps this started with good pace and eagerness but going into the latter half of the race something was lost and the flash to the finish was not as smooth and effective as expected.  There is much promise and potential here with many possibilities to explore - I will stick to my verdict though of half one a big 'yes', half two a disappointing 'miss' - I can't be fairer than that and I can't offering anything more than personal honesty!

WET DREAMS - WET DREAMS

The band 'Wet Dreams', their place of creation 'Oslo, Norway', the generic tag suggested 'Punk Rock/Garage', my mission - 'to dissect, analyse and give my honest feedback' - so far so rotten.  I go in cold, wrestle with my thoughts and attempt to spill something accurate at the end of it.  One thing is for sure - the shit thrown, the dirty noise made and the DIY shabbiness appeal to my dirty dog senses and so I am part way to something positive, more listens though and all can be clear -here we go!

'Band Aid'  slops in, opens up a crummy orifice and lets fall a fine granular grubbiness akin to many Dirty Water releases with the usual submerged cock rock feistiness, popped actions and riffing attraction.   A slaggy serenade to rouse the rabid rebels from their slumber and get them grooving to the grind early on.  A certain spaced waste is discharged through clogged exhaust pipes, it doesn't detract from the enthusiasm of the performers, this is a nice, noxious untidy outpouring.  'Her' is a grinding whore-hound with muscular hips intent on draining seeds and causing ecstatic pain.  The opening seduction is done via voluptuous gaping wound of dripping disease that really riffs to the rhythm and has me all agog.   The progression is slow, the space-age hypno grooming of the first verse sludgy, drooling and eye-balling.  Things slop up, the inner core of perspired energy never leaves the fray with it all becoming too much for the pluckers and slappers and the end result being nothing short of a plugged in frenzy that fizzled into de-cabled darkness.

'Radioactivity' begins with high hopes, much promise and moves in a fine poppish manner  sweetly crudded over and given a breezy blow through with good liquid fuzzery that combines that which is well lubricated and that which contains much extraneuous crud.  It is a fine combination and the band seem to relish the opportunity to play the brand of dirty rock and roll with a consistent melody and good snagging hook that kicks back against a feeling and stance best thrown to one side.    'Depression' is a mucky listen, offers no startling strategy and seems to just be there to fill a gap.  The mental illness under the dimmed spotlight is dealt with in a fleeting manner and I find myself left behind - if only the black clouds would blow away so quickly.   No not for me this one, I move on before hot water scalds my assessing privates.

'Roliglata' is a slow serenade from depths partially spruced up.  The band catch a definite retro rhythm and swirl and sway in a hippified manner that I should vomit over but instead duly enjoy.  The contrast to that which has passed is a sweet surprise and this charming little groomer has many vibrations that are seemingly ingrained within my long term musical soul.  The added softness and carefully placed tonal qualities add to the slushiness of the song and I find little to criticise.   It is what it is - get over it!  'Bad Boy' is a stunning blade brandished and after much posturing and hard threat a rapacious lunge comes and your onlooking countenance is sliced to fuck.  The band hold themselves back at first and ride a low geared machine into the main mush of the song proper before upping the tempo and letting themselves indulge in the creation of a freshly torn arsehole.  The 'off the leash' explosion exposes a band hitting rock and roll gold and perhaps, just perhaps, they should have prolonged this moment and turned the listeners legs to liquid.  This is a quality episode nonetheless - onwards I go, rocked up and ready!

'Boogie' bulldozes, hits the dancefloor and knocks seven bells out of ones inner core and enjoys the sensation alongside some more thrilling and spilling sonic nutcases.   The pounding emanated emphasises a dirty dog band humping with great pleasure and doing so with a flexibilty and driving insistence one has to submit and take the ramming no matter what.  The overall stature of the song is large and looming, the weight behind each thrust juddering, the band are throwing in a subtle alteration here.   Things slow up next with 'Blueslata' moving through muddy meadows flecked with manure, bare patches and withered weeds.  As the traipse through snotted sludge advances there comes a frenzied storm, a storm borne from dense and dirty clouds dropping a miserable pollution to poison the resistance.  We tag along, all is monochrome and prone to become tilted - the journey is absorbing with psychedlic suggestions - I pop a pill and ingest deeper - wonderful!

'Beautiful' opens with lofted promise via crisply cut wires that frisk it up and set the stage for a something very DIY and very fuckin' pleasing.  The wonder of this song is that it feels like a ditty anyone can create and gives all pluckers and fuckers due hope.   This doesn't lessen the rewards of the song but in fact gives it a crucial approachability and when played at the opening of a brand new day the vibes are genuinely all the better for it - a right elevating piece.  We finish the CD with 'I Told You - Drugs' - a closing snippet that rust buckets, sends out great 'fuck its' and shoots into an open vein with head destroying intention.   The rushes come, zeniths achieved, a shabby babby of ball-banging buggery drops from the listening loins and holler in grand style.   This final roar fuck is needed, the band copulate to the cerscendoe - I bop, I drop, there seems to be a dampened area near my crotch - I think that sums matters up.

I am done, I am aroused, this mucky music is to be smeared on my musical room walls and when in need of escape, I shall duly enetr, lock the doors, play loud and inhale.   Not a bad CD at all this, at first I was hesitant, tis amazing what patience can do and far better to review a CD over a couple of weeks than one listen and bin (like many do the bastards).

COLOSSUS FALL - EARTHBEAT

A 5 piece group made up of metal-mongering tyrants who twat, splat, roar and score with a desire quite blatant if one dares to delve.  The band formed in 2011 in Geneva, Sweden and have had some good support slots over the years.  Here we have 9 tracks to pop into the aural orifice, to duly masticate upon (or masturbate if you are easily swung) and spit out with some thoughtful text.   It takes all sorts - thank fuck for that!

'Darkness Swirled Around Us' prepares, throws the odd 'feeling out' punch before roaring headlong into the furnace of utter fuckery and knocking seven shades of shit out the substrate of silence.   Bellowing and blistering with a built in thug chug this volatile piece needs to be handle with extreme care as, more than likely, it will go off in your face and cause extreme debilitation.  I am not a hardcore connoisseur despite listening to heaps of the stuff over the years but I can easily recognise some hot-roasted music when I hear it, spitting and splattering with burning intensity - nice.   Next and the crushing constrictor of malevolence, namely ''Fury'.   Digital tweakings are shot down with a demonic roar, the skins are splat-fucked with vicious temper, the guitars masturbated by hands crazed and focused.  The settled substrate of silence is ripped from beneath our feet and a masterclass of power brutality is exposed with the band throwing punches from all angles, hammering at ones weak points and leaving many welts of evil intent.   The production levels are bang on, the exposure of each element ideal - I just remain a little undecided as to whether or not I like this one - I feel as though I have heard it all before.

'The Nameless Men' lurks, considers the options and then...erupts.  From an uncertain alleyway into a bloodbath street where violence reigns supreme and the warriors under the spotlight empty cartridges, bruise bodies, make great conflagrations of chaotic disorder.  All the while the commanding leader roars, takes sexual delight in the carnage whilst his converts turn minds to shit and nasally bleed without hope.  This is a messy song, coming at you from every direction with no tactical plan and yet...oh yes, and yet...the bastards seem to know what they are doing - tis quite ridiculous if you ask me and my only gripe is the buggers spin things out past the 5 minute mark - harrumph - I only have punk patience you know!

'They Knew Not' burst blood vessels, clobbers like the Hulk on whizz, smashes and crashes with adrenalin-shit gusto souped up with fuck-off riffage and a gargantuan effort that sees pores leak, eyes pop, innards turn to mush.   The band play things close to their chest, offer little room for critique and blitzkrieg the senses with an unapologetic apocalypse those from blackened realms will wank over.  The device is suspect, the delivery damning, the outcome - nefarious success that hurts!  '1956' slaps about, eventually grapples with an oiled carcass that needs, feeds, indulges in misdeeds.  The sonic piss that comes from a spiteful shaft of throbbing gristle is laden with trace elements of toxicity liable to poison those up for the sacrifice.  The chaos and cruelty continue in a frenzied orgy that broils the cranial juices and makes the aural passages leak the resultant viscid and steaming mess.   I struggle for respite, respite to give me time to assess - there is a whole heap of raging combat going on - I reckon for some it will be too much, for others (perverted) it will not be enough - either way the band are masters of their art form.

Next, 'Basorexia' a spiral ascent into broken Heavens, a war cry, the expected avalanche of untold aggression.   A bass grumbles, a preparation is more than a little obvious before a stampede rips apart your resisting armies of hope.   The band gather all areas, send in the infantry of anarchic mindlessness and blow to fuckery all opposition or any doubts one may have.  I have had enough at this stage due to me being of a delicate nature and oh so sweet and kind (blah) - in truth it is a little much for me but don't underestimate the overspill of quality and focused energy - marvellous.

I skip through the last three with hopefully accurate terse textuality so as to get the point of the review across and not tread on the toes of those better suited to dissect this upheaval.   'In Your Arms' grabs a quick breath and then gives a damning scream before opening up and splatter-fucking the senses in the usual style.  Fully equipped, blasting in all directions I find this one too much and with too many stuttering moments and gear changes.  The power though, and the craftsmanship, remain unquestionable.  'Collapse' in parts, just does that with juddering moments not appealing and almost forcing the mechanics of the song to fall apart at the seams.  The surging sprints bring out the best qualities of the band and expose a focused and energetic beast not willing to fuck around.  A massive moment that turns tissue to liquid, bone to dust, cranial gunk to puke.  Again I struggle to get fully into the mix as it isn't my true bag but man, these guys are good.   We close with 'Earthbeat' a molten hotchpotch of colliding style all done with the same searing intensity.  Metal moments are exhibited, volcanic eruptions are plentiful, the unending commitment to the crazed cause is what we get and if one has the strength of will to survive yet another frazzling concoction and come out the other end sane then I tip my rather singed hat to them.

So a CD that is a conflagration of luminous white heat that will duly blind many to its inner beauty, will tumble the rest all ways and so divide the levels of appreciation.  Of course, once more, this is niche music for nasty bastard noise lovers, I am a mere victim that has been put in a position to assess - I hope the previous textual weavings have made matters clearer - tis no easy thing taking on this vast musical world.